Fragments of the story which I am about to tell lie scattered far and wide across this world. Like bits of paper strewn upon the wind they have been carried across the Old World land mass from Greece to India and back again. They have been carried by the feet of men, by boat, by camel, by elephant, by horse. Fragments of this story may be read in the Catacombs of Rome, in the history of Egypt, in the cuneiform tablets of Asia Minor. They may be read in the rock carvings of Asia Minor and of India and in the art work of Egypt and of Greece. In a sense it is a tale of two countries, India and Greece, and great heaps of fragments lie scattered through the epics of those lands. It is a tale of the long ago. The people of the old Stonehenge had come and gone but Troy was yet to rise and fall. Even the geography of Europe and of Asia were not then what they are now. A great volcanic mountain still stood on an island north of Crete and Vakshu, the Crooked River, still flowed into the Caspian Sea.